GOTTESMAN: Holidays have own memories

Saturday

May 18, 2013 at 6:00 AM

Jan Gottesman Reflections

Holidays stir up all kinds of emotions.

Chanukah reminds me of my grandmother on my mother's side – Bubbie – who died when I was in junior high. I also think about my Uncle Jerry, who was a kid at heart, painting his windows with Chanukah images before the big family gathering. He also died way too young.

Thanksgiving reminds me of my Aunt May – my mother's sister – who always hosted, saved the turkey skin for me to snack on in the kitchen and always served pecan pie, knowing it was my favorite. She also hosted Passover, which featured the turkey, but no pie, just matzah ball soup with billowy-soft “cannon balls” floating in fatty chicken broth.

Unfortunately, not all holidays bring up happy memories.

With all deference to cupid and love, in my mind, Valentine's Day will always be the day my mother died. She was deep in the throes of Alzheimer's, didn't know who I was and really hadn't been the woman I identify as my mother for well over five years. Still, when Valentine's Day comes around, I think about the day she died, alone at the hospital where she had been rushed from the nursing home.

Her oldest sister arrived just after she passed away, so even if my mother had a moment of lucidity, there was no one there to say goodbye. I know I should feel guilty about that, but I feel like I said goodbye to my mother years before.

Her funeral was held during a full-out blizzard. Since her nursing home was in Springfield to be near her sisters (who she remembered more than me because they were part of her distant past — the last memories she could cling to), few of her Worcester-area friends could make it. I actually thought it was fitting that the friend who did make it was the one my mother drove around until she finally helped her learn to drive.

My father will always be my Mother's Day memory. He died on the Friday before the holiday. Because of the way the Jewish religion works, we held his funeral on Sunday, Mother's Day. Again, only one set of Worcester-area friends was able to make it.

I guess in the end, you know who your real friends are … or your family finds out.

When my father died, my mother's family, still living in Springfield, had dwindled down to her oldest sister. Then 90, she was planning to leave for her final trip to Europe. Even though my father had technically left us on Thursday, the doctors did not get my permission to turn off machines until I knew her plane had taken off on Friday. My father, who loved to travel, would have hated being the one to mess up her plans.

Because my father grew up in Springfield, several elderly men I had never met showed up to share stories over his grave. I think my father would have liked that. He loved a good story.

I don't have strong memories of other holidays from my youth. My mother's family had occasional summer cookouts, where my Uncle Frank introduced me to the sweetness of Silver Queen corn on the cob. Father's Day meant giving my father a pipe or a bowtie, neither of which he needed.

But Mother's Day and Valentine's Day will always bring sadness.

Jan Gottesman is managing editor of The Banner. She can be reached at bannews@yahoo.com.

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